


where do i find myself

by clizzyhours



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Technically, Gen, Growth, Hair, Identity, Language, Self indulgence, Self-Esteem, Self-Reflection, Symbolism of Hair, Writing All Over The Place, bisexual!isabelle lightwood, hair cutting, isabelle has Friends (referenced), isabelle lightwood speaks spanish and so does the lightwood family, isabelle’s rough childhood, timeline is vague!!!!!, unedited, what the fuck is canon, yes i have been to a salon yes i waved over details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 02:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clizzyhours/pseuds/clizzyhours
Summary: Isabelle Lightwood’s journey with her hair. Yes. I mean literally.—Isabelle hasn’t thought about her hair or its symbolism in so long that she thinks, maybe, just maybe, it’s time for a change.





	where do i find myself

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings: language, implied violence because canon you know.
> 
> inspiration by a friend’s tweet aka this photo: https://www.instagram.com/p/Bm8sanvhRoC/?igshid=a2jxqvd8w1rq
> 
> thank you so much and please enjoy reading!

Ever since she was a young girl, Isabelle has worn her thick black hair long and loose, cascading into endless curls.

Her mother - mamá, (Isabelle would say sometimes in Maryse’s more tender moments,) she would braid her hair back in neat but effortless styles or would use her manicured Runed fingers to tightly yank Isabelle’s hair into straightforward ponytails.

Her mother favored practicality above anything else.

She learned to mimic her mother by watching her in the full-length mirror that graced Isabelle’s expansive room or in her mother’s bedroom, sitting on her plush vanity chair and copying every action precisely.

Slowly her mother destroyed her in little ways and so Isabelle learned to utilize her beauty into a weapon.

She would be what she wanted and not what her mother desired with her heavy expectations and eternal Clave obedience.

Isabelle pulled her hair into complex braids and elaborate updos and wore her hair freely, curls amok.

It made Maryse tighten her lips, bite her words back in present company. She would scowl and scold Isabelle for her decisions later on in private silence, in English and Spanish - a result of her mother’s sheer anger displayed.

(Spanish is something more of her mother’s thing and Isabelle acclimated to the language excellently, her siblings lacking in interest. They could read and speak Spanish but the language fell more to Isabelle and Maryse than anyone else in her family.)

All of the Lightwood children could bear the brunt of it at times but Isabelle? Nothing she did had made her mother happy.

Isabelle did the same thing with makeup and clothing. Red lips, bright eyeshadow, and heavy winged eyeliner.

She would wear sparkly dresses and latex like pants as she grew up, turning her mother’s wanted conservative manners into freedom of vast clubs and reckless missions.

She can’t help but recall the tight collared dresses her mother would buy in solid colors and professional blazers and low heels for Isabelle.

Isabelle only worn them among Clave dinners with both of her parents present, her brothers in dark suits and permanent scowls.

She could play the dutiful and obedient daughter sometimes. Sometimes the arguments weren’t always worth it and Isabelle’s temper could flare just as easily as her mother’s.

Maryse wanted Isabelle a certain way; she wanted nothing less than perfection, nothing less than excellence.

And yes, Isabelle thinks, their relationship is much more stronger nowadays, bonded by sorrow and divorce and a plethora of familial issues along the way.

And yet the past stills linger like a ghost, the old strain of her relationship with her mamá a bright phantom in the present. 

She tried to become a replica of her mother many months ago with tight but conservative dresses, sleek ponytails, and low curved heels, pressing her pink lips into a tight smile and wear the Lightwood honor with pride. 

Isabelle had shoved her glitter and glitzy-glam looks into a antique chest, hid pictures under floorboards, and burnt letters and memorabilia until they were nothing but ash.

For Alec, she had told herself. 

For Jace.

Even for Max.

Be a good girl, be a good daughter. La hija, she was for Maryse and Robert, desperately seeking their approval until it hurt.

Do this for your family, Isabelle had told herself and worn like a mantra.

Wear your hair low. Keep your makeup minimal but calm. Keep your clothes pressed and neat. No flaws exposed.

The ugly truth had been revealed about the Lightwood’s immense history and Isabelle tried to salvage and fix until everything collapsed.

Isabelle wears her heart on her sleeve and wields emotional support like her goddamn whip.

It’s irrelevant, she wants to say. She hides her heart regardless.

Isabelle does not like to think of the time she was possessed by a demon and towered over her older brother, her words dripping scornfully. (Truthfully.) Her inky black hair flashing, her demonic eyes alive and her mouth curved into a snarl.

Always the favorite child. I am done living in your shadow.

A flicker of memory races across and she shrugs it off, determined to let bitter resentment fall behind.

Isabelle soothes and fixes and guides and if she doesn’t, then no one else will. She always has. 

She has always done the same thing with her hair, running a brush through her thick curls and playing at her strands in more nervous moments. 

Her hair brings her a sense of comfort, she has idly thought.

If she doesn’t, then who else will? (Her mother is still unraveling her own identity and although she tries, Isabelle can still feel the lingering past like an unfixable leak.)

Alec wore his anger like a crown and Jace wore his feelings like an open book. Her younger brother was much too young, too far away from their family’s rigid expectations.

And yes, things are much more easier now. Her brother’s temperaments are soothed by honesty and love and her parents are free, untethered from their crippling marriage.

And yet.

Isabelle stills finds herself lost among the sea with no anchor in sight.

She still does what she has always done. Soothe. Fix. Guide. Advise. Repeat over and over again.

Her Yin fen addiction is currently abated and By The Angel, she can still feels flickered moments.

She tries so hard to stay afloat and she still attends recovery meetings and sometimes Isabelle feels like she’s falling apart at her seams.

Everyone else is on their own path and here, she lingers with ghosts tormenting her so.

Isabelle throws herself into justice and unraveling the corruption of the Clave and finding a cure for Clary.

Her head spins and she thinks often, yeah, this is way too goddamn much.

Isabelle is only a Nephilim, more Mundane than anyone realizes. 

Isabelle stills wears her hair long, she realizes absently on a chilly autumn day after a long patrol.

Everything has gone too hell but that’s a different story.

Long, glorious raven hair that receives compliments and she uses to make women and men fall at her feet and has endured as much as she has.

Isabelle hasn’t thought about her hair or its symbolism in so long that she thinks, maybe, just maybe, it’s time for a change.

She smiles idly and walks across the New York City pavement, her black stilettos crunching litter and dirt and crumbled up leaves.

Autumn is rebirth and death and Isabelle can’t help but feel like a mythical women.

Isabelle walks and walks and walks, her feet traversing to a salon.

She smiles and chats with the Mundanes and acquiesces.

Isabelle sits at a chair and waits, her appointment shortly.

She can’t help but be surprised at their willingness to squeeze her in but takes it in stride.

Pinterest and Google Images and fashion magazines she peers and looks through with steady hands. 

Nothing captures her eyes.

Isabelle doesn’t know what she wants except she has the desire to free herself.

To free herself from rigid expectations and turmoil and the past and the goddamn hell of a present she’s living through right now.

Isabelle is used to transforming herself into something else, into what she had to be and what she had selected for herself.

Her name is called and so she ventures forward.

The black salon seat is cool when she sits down and the hairdresser is stunning, dark skin and bright hair and pretty features.

By The Angel, women are stunning. So different from men, she thinks. And yeah, she’s grateful they are.

Clary and Maia and Aline and Helen have shown her the true meaning of friendship, of the comfort of women.

Men are annoying as hell. And no. She will not retract her statement.

She’s smiling openly and Isabelle smiles back, murmurs pleasant greetings.

Mundanes are different from Shadowhunters and she has grown to love being around them, their normality refreshing.

“Surprise me,” Isabelle says out-loud.

The hairdresser blinks once and asks if Isabelle is sure.

“Yes.”

In the next several minutes, her hair is shampoo and conditioned and washed, brushed out and going through the motions.

It’s nice, Isabelle thinks.

The soothing motion of having your hair played with and taken care of gently. Zero pressure or responsibilities in the moment. 

It’s almost freeing.

The next thing Isabelle knows, her inky locks are falling to the ground and she smiles.

Mamá, she thinks.

She thinks of family and of friendships and the past slowly coming undone.

Of the Clave and of expectations and rules snipped away.

Isabelle sees her reflection and murmurs, “shorter, please.”

The hairdresser smiles, nods, and continues.

Her hair falls around her neck, brushing around her chin just so.

It’s perfect and different and everything at once.

She doesn’t recognize herself.

“Could we please do bangs?” Isabelle murmurs.

Isabelle closes her eyes and hears the hairdresser humming a soft song, her front locks flying astride.

A comb through, product, and a quick spray, Isabelle is done and she opens her eyes as the hairdresser presents herself.

“Thank you,” She says joyously.

“You’re welcome,” The pretty woman smiles, stepping back.

In the end, Isabelle pays her a hefty tip and a generous sum of money, walking out of the salon lighter and airier than she has been in the longest time.

It feels like freedom, Isabelle thinks, the sun descending behind her in vivid pinks and oranges and reds.


End file.
